


A Study in Nobility

by Chryselis



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Communication, Diary/Journal, Established Relationship, Ferdinand cries, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Hubert tries his best, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Canon, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Use your words Hubert, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:41:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25882243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chryselis/pseuds/Chryselis
Summary: Selected diaries by Hubert von Vestra, c. Garland to Horsebow Moon 1188.Set after the war, Hubert writes about his struggles to communicate with Ferdinand during difficult moments of their relationship. He reflects on how Ferdinand keeps surprising him and how complicated it is to love.They both learn a few things about each other along the way, and what it takes to make love work.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 13
Kudos: 87





	1. Chilling

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to my dearest [Jo](http://www.twitter.com/joannaestep), who supported me through this project, and to the fellow ferdibert fans I approached for prompts, which you'll find as the titles for each chapter.
> 
> This work is very much my own personal love letter to Ferdinand and Hubert. A gift to them of sorts, through its ending. Lord knows they worked hard for it.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy it.

I suppose this is hardly the first time that F. surprises me.

And yet here I am. As catatonic as I am shaking with anger, as methodical in this written approach as I am manic in my thoughts. Even now, bent as I am over my desk, delaying our evening appointment under false pretenses of work, my heart trembles as my body tenses.

It is almost as if I’ve caught a sudden chill. No, worse even, it is the cold sweat of fever, of my body fighting off an unbearable heat that it cannot handle.

Pathetic. Simply pathetic.

Is this what you are to be, von Vestra? A spineless, lovesick coward who excuses himself when faced with discomfort?

Focus. You are not in the habit of losing grip so easily. But, as usual, there can only be one cause. That cause being: an unwarranted, disproportionate reaction to the words and actions of a certain colleague, recently turned lover.

In any case. To avoid further embarrassment and childlike behaviour, I have decided to turn to these pages, commandeering a resource usually dedicated to war and strategy for my own internal conflict. A justified investment surely, given that clear reasoning and a calm mind are the most valuable tools known to man, and mine seem to be momentarily blunted.

Yes, yes, I know. Delaying the inevitable, even here. Even in private conversation with myself, it pains me to admit it:

F., do you know how I felt when you so briskly pulled away from my touch before the meeting a few hours prior? I had only meant to call you to attention, to touch your arm in reassurance and signal that we were about to start. What crossed my mind when you straight away turned to a visiting lord, took his hands in yours in greeting, plied him with that dazzling smile and those thoughtful words of consideration for his health, his mood, his taste in brocade embellished by the finest adrestian embroidery?

Do you know how I felt, when eyes turned and murmurs reached my ears, in the split second it took for you to leave my side and show your back to me?

I felt a fool.

And when our eyes met as I made to slink away before the appointed hour, the cold stare you gave me was more chilling than any I have had the displeasure to face to date; you turned away without saying a word.

I felt I could die.

And so I fled.

I thought to close the door to my heart before you could, to leave myself out in the cold before you cast me away, to return to the indignant scorn and bluster I held for you before the war.

Anything to stop that moment in time from rising to the surface of my thoughts, preserved frozen in memory.

Do you know F. that ice floats in water?

It is a fact of nature as much as it is a fact of the mind. One I thought myself brilliant to have tricked, molded through the years into a heavy frozen sheet of my own, a barren desert to serve as an infallible defense against the reality of our vulnerable existence. Nothing was to break this glacial resolve, to rise above it, to hit hard enough for cracks to show. At first, its purpose was to curb murderous intent, to stand tall against the impossible injustice that children face when hurt by selfish adults. Then it became a crutch to keep up with Edelgard, who leapt ahead regardless of her own hurt. I’ve never had time to feel for myself, not when the only beacon in my life was the promise made to my dearest friend, hair whitened beyond her years, whose chill I made my own to give her a chance to feel. My own footsteps to leave hoarfrost in our wake, so that her resolve could light a path for those yet to come.

But you…You do not light—you burn, burn brighter than the sun, ablaze a wild passion and determination oft beyond your own control. A celestial body so alien and distant that your presence overhead casts no shadow for me to hide in. You taught me of a strength born from warmth rather than cold steel, of a fire that ignites the soul, of a young love untamed that spread like dangerous wildfire, to later mature and settle into a hearth, inviting a tired, weary soul to share its home.

And while patches of snow and ice on the ground may gladly melt away from the gentle touch of the sun, an iceberg will roar, felled through its center, as the cracks born of rising temperature shatter its shape from within.

No matter how thick the ice on the surface, you light a fire in me that crackles away deep in my core, far from the reach of the cold.

And now that I know I am in love with you, the ice has given way, leaving me exposed to the woes of the heart.

So please forgive me F. for hiding, for nursing wounds away from prying eyes. I’m afraid of those unspoken words, of the answers you might give to the questions on my mind.

Does my name really carry such a burden that even your burning presence is cooled by its overbearing shadow? Does my touch repulse you when witnessed by others, a fresh brand of sin on bare skin that has you screaming for more, until you are reminded that wanting never trumps propriety?

Do you not want me, as dearly as I do you? At all times, in all places, in an infinity of ways?

Oh, how loathe I am to feel this fear, to flounder within its icy grasp…For now that I think of it, the admission stings all the more: you have never once left me out in the cold.

I am always the one who flees.

...And flee I did again, to pace around the office and brew a cup of coffee.

You’ve told me time and time again to not be afraid to feel, to ask rather than assume, to confide rather than withdraw, and here I am doing it again.

F., I am sorry.

Of all the things I could accuse you with, being cold should not be one of them. I simply…I cannot stand it, to see how you play social mores in your favour, how you use the most special and brilliant parts of you to pander to fools and sycophants, how you allow them to think they have your esteem in order to gain the upper hand.

You are the only one who earns my touch, my rarest of smiles. But that is not a request you’ve ever made of me, nor is it fair that I should expect the same in return.

And I’m ashamed to admit that while I paced furiously like an animal caged, I remembered…The lord whose hand you took in yours also sided in favour of the motion Edelgard had hoped to pass without resorting to authority. Without resorting to my methods further down the line.

I know exactly what you would say:

“Oh, Hubert, you forget one thing. Politics is a simple matter of winning favour!”

I have to laugh, because I did chastise you so when we had that debate. When your reasoning proved sound, and your evidence plentiful. I am sorry then, for confusing politics and matters of the heart. I shall endeavour to not let my disdain taint your efforts, and to learn to appreciate methods I would consider torture.

For, had you let me touch your arm and whisper close to your ear, I have no doubt the flame you hold for me would’ve lit up your sun-kissed complexion so that no one could deny for whom your heart burns so bright.

It is possible then, that the name von Vestra indeed would’ve lost us a battle that your strategy otherwise so effortlessly tipped in our favour.

I am sorry for being selfish and insecure, Ferdinand.

From here on I shall endeavour to study the threads of your own carefully crafted schemes, while I watch them work their intoxicating magic from afar.


	2. Frustration

Well F., here I find myself again! Once more at a loss as to how to approach the puzzle that is our relationship, and how despite my dearest intentions, I seem to only cause you affront and harm.

Why is it that our interactions and struggles at the worst times appear so devoid of logic? I thought I knew you well! Is that not the very reason we found ourselves growing so close over the years, sharing our blossomed appreciation for one another as affection, as a newfound closeness, a trust that words shared between us would never fall on deaf ears, and that the most timid of touches forever would set our hearts alight?

It seemed as if our days of petty bickering were over, because the unavoidable interpretation of our fateful magnetism, frustrating as it always were, only needed to be seen through the magnifying glass of maturity to be revealed in full: that we have a frustrating propensity to love each other, and that we are as much alike as we are prone to differ. That we are two peas in a pod as much as we are chalk and cheese, as Dorothea would so “eloquently” put it. [Note in margin: Petra’s astonishment upon learning these idioms remains a fond memory to date. Reminder to self: casually drop one in conversation whenever it seems a smile could brighten her day.]

Alas, I find myself now perpetrator of the very foolish behaviours I once thought easily avoidable, keen as I am to turn to reason—even in matters of the heart—as a guiding principle.

But what use is a logical approach, when its partner in method is the most infuriating, incendiary, impossibly hot-blooded dramaturge of nonsensically idealistic narrative I have ever met?!

Well. Perhaps that is uncalled for, given that your emotions are hardly rampant and wild at all times, much like mine are not as easily dampened by realism as I would have you believe.

So the crux of the matter is: reason alone does not suffice when it comes to navigating feelings keeping us apart in conversation—nor necessarily do actions, as I have learned today.

Anyhow, perhaps it is best I apply this rational, methodical approach here in these pages before my memory of events becomes any further tainted by the frustration bleeding from your own wound, apparently freshly inflicted by my dastardly hand, terrible traitor that I am.

According to the screaming, then sobbing judgment of a certain F.v.A.:

I have betrayed his trust, I have caused immeasurable affront by the indignity of my actions, I have displayed utter inconsiderate arrogance by placing my desire above his person.  
Apparently, on an island of emotion where reason is but a distant shore, it has been declared a crime to try and HELP those we wish to shower with care and consideration.

In summary, a timeline of my reasoning and actions leading up to the apparent betrayal:

* After last entry, failed to raise my own conclusions about insecurities when confronting F.  
* F. in fact entirely amenable to my escape and excused any perceived brusqueness.  
* Chose to take his apology gracefully, not owning up to emotional turmoil over the matter.  
* Later regretted my own silence given F.’s earnest apology. Could not forgive self for allowing F. to assume responsibility for my reaction, when my own conclusion had been to act more open and supportive towards him.  
* After multiple failed attempts to raise issue (each quieted by annoyingly attentive smiles and soothing kisses, far too distracting when one suffers from nerves), concluded action to be the best recourse where words previously failed.  
* Conceived plan to express feelings through action: support F. in endeavors, surprise him with affection through considerate duties (organize mess in bedroom, surprise with clean quarters garnished by tea and cakes at end of day.)  
* Executed plan to perfection, accompanied F. back to quarters as planned.  
* F. in sudden panic, about to call staff to demand who rearranged personal belongings.  
* Explained state of affairs to be of my own doing, expecting gratitude.  
* Received only outrage and accusations in response.

And what a sight it was! Drawers, cabinet doors flung open, clothes ripped from their hangers, the chaos I thought to save you from regaining hold over your quarters in seconds, all while you searched for something unknown, and thought it fine to shout and cry as you let me have a rather strongly worded piece of your mind! How can I forget these wonderful morsels of wisdom?

The conversation unfolded (approximately) as follows:

“No, no no no everything is ruined! Where is it—where have you—no, it was fine! Everything was fine! You ruined it!”

Heavens forbid you allow me to explain the logical system now in place, to put objects in the spaces and furnishings provided to house them.

“Logical to you, you mean! How dare you!? What gave you the right—”

Rather unwarranted reaction to tidying away some clothes, I remarked. Especially given your tendency to leave such tasks unattended longer than is proper due to stubbornly ordering staff to not do it on your behalf, a matter now solved by my involvement.

“Oh Hubert, you absolute buffoon! Are you so blind to the people around you? To me?! No, do not answer that, I am not finished—”

Of course I cut in to answer. Should I not have?! Am I expected to listen to you make ridiculous statements at my expense, accusations that I am not allowed to defend myself against? Forced to bear the brunt of your impatience and all consuming need to feel more than is necessary? Preposterous. And I told you as much.

“Ah yes,how could I forget?! Hubert von Vestra knows best! Hubert von Vestra, knower of all things, schemer of grand plans, standing above the petty concerns of lesser-brained folk! Those of us burdened with feelings!”

Or something to that effect. At this point you started throwing clothes and books in my direction while ranting. I may have remarked you were behaving like a child. You may have rightly remarked I behaved like a parent.

Yes, that was it, the straw that broke the camel’s back:  
[Note in margin: Another good one for Petra]

“I am not some pretty thing for you to coo at and mother! Am I not your lover? Am I not a minister, a soldier, I have killed people Hubert! Just as you! Am I not—(you paused, and I am loathe to remember your spluttering tears at this point)  
…Do not interfere like this ever again!”

At this point I found myself incensed, and in some moment of self-preservation you saw fit to shout at me to leave and not come back, shoving me out of the door before I could exacerbate the situation further.

Writing this out has calmed me somewhat. It seems I’ve lost the will to be angry anymore. I can admit I have done something to upset you, but I still do not understand:

Even if you choose to live in a disorganised state of affairs, what is it about my desire to help that made you react as if I treated you like the child, and not the man I love?

What a disaster!!!!! Buffoon indeed! Why is it that these realizations escape me when you need me the most?!

Here I was, worried following my last upset that you were starting to outgrow me, and here I am now, treating you as if you have not grown.

Could you not think, von Vestra! What is the greatest fear and hurt at work in each of F.’s darkest hours?

Obvious! The feeling that he will never be good enough.  
Failure. Not performing, feeling small, disappointing those you love. Is that what my actions made you feel, Ferdinand? Did my desire to help only tug at the taut bowstring of your pride, is that why you sprung and attacked me so?

I cannot know, and yet again rather than assume, I must endeavour to ask.

It seems clear now, that if I am not to allow you deeper insight into my own heart, as perceptive as you are, that I will only keep causing you harm. That the words you need are not those of reason, perhaps not even words at all. To be heard, accepted, and loved as you are.

I know this, I know this a thousand times over and yet my own weakness again draws us apart.

You are right to share your frustration, you are right to share with me the consequences of my words and actions, and I owe it to you to share my thoughts in return. Had I been honest about my fears and talked to you earlier, there would have been no need to act on your behalf. To tidy your room, to find some abstract physical representation of what I keep locked up in my own heart.

Please be patient Ferdinand. I am trying, I am learning.

And rather than make decisions on your behalf, rather than think my feelings have a place in altering your life as I please, I’ll be sure to act as you do, take your hand in mine and ask:

Are you hurt? Do you need my help? Is something wrong?

For our fears and frustrations are but our own, and to love is not to educate: it is to respect one another, to marvel at what we have in common, to understand these shared traits are as valuable as the differences that make them feel remarkable.


	3. Bashful

Today F., I return to these pages curious to attempt a different approach to my writing. Over the years, I’ve tended to see the practice as a way to unburden myself of thoughts and desires otherwise trapped and clamoring for attention when I had more important things to concern myself with. [[Note in margin: See letters. Should perhaps burn them after all. Gift some? Reading again may prove too painful. Or an exercise in reflection?]]

A practice in forgetfulness so to speak. Yet it seems a shame, when we experience such a depth of emotion together, to record only those moments that I failed to share with you face to face. Or to see writing as an easy escape, a shortcut to avoid confrontation that may reveal more unspoken feelings I am not equipped to deal with.

What struck me most following my last entry is that I have a dogged habit of repeating mistakes (where you are concerned, at least. Would not consider this a common occurrence in other areas). This in turn leads back to the idea of forgetfulness: if my relationship with my own emotions is one of erasure, as intent on growth and improvement as it may be, am I not then doomed to walk the same path, cyclical, never ending?

I can hear you laughing from here, which I suppose is in part why I’m still writing instead of talking. There is a fear at work, even though it is ebbing. More than anything it’s a newfound discomfort driven by determination, as opposed to the lonely inadequacy of old. Growing pains, but not of the physical kind.

Yes, yes, you certainly are rubbing off on me.

In any case, I witnessed something today that I have likely seen before and not comprehended, given how surprised I am by the realization. That is why I’d like to make a note of events here, so that I may remember not only my struggles and mistakes, but also some of the joyful, surprising things I learn about you over the course of our relationship.

You have spent the past week finalizing a proposal that outlines a management scheme to co-ordinate standards of education across various academies and universities, while allowing them to maintain a relative degree of autonomy in the style of their education. The way it encourages choice in method and place of study, breaking away from the tradition of centralized schools and prestige, is a true stroke of genius. The matter has been discussed at length with the heads of various schools for the past year, while the amount of schemes, estimates, studies and the like you’ve consumed on the subject is an achievement in and of itself.

I’ve even found myself fascinated through your study, the human impact of this educational endeavor of a kind I am not prone to consider. It is far simpler to break people down than it is to build them up, to consider people a metric in your plans rather than embrace their unpredictability—a matter we are most opposites in at times, despite our shared ideal of a world where people are free from oppression, and where rules inspire moral integrity and responsibility. [[Note in margin: tease F. some more about his changed views on the role of nobility as a social class versus the concept of behaving with integrity]] 

Both of us are ardent supporters of those we love, yet while I maintain a certain detachment from principle and focus my affections on those I feel have earned them, you have this indiscriminate and infinite capacity to care for the well-being of others as if they were the closest of kin.

Generous, bold, loving, dependable: these are all traits I believe to be attributed by many to your personage.

And yet, today you appeared to wither. Doubt yourself, pull away from your beloved spotlight, bashful.

Bashful! Prime Minister “I am Ferdinand von Aegir, the true splendor of nobility”?!

Preposterous!

Where was I— educational committee. The proposal. Events leading up to this out of character, timid behaviour.

So, the time finally came for you to present your work to a committee of experts far beyond your own schooling—for this reform is a newfound passion of yours, where others present have spent entire lives dedicated to the theory behind the transmission of knowledge. I know it weighs heavy on you, so keen as you are to please and succeed, to shoulder another endeavour that others may find far removed from your area of expertise. That is why I was so keen to attend, to witness your presentation, ready filled with pride at the thought of the triumphant accolades it would no doubt receive.

I attended on the pretence of a perceived security threat, and watched the other presentations with gnawing anticipation. Many bright minds for sure, but all with fatal flaws: too stubborn, too narrow, they lacked the compromise of negotiation that your plan so beautifully would solve. They rattled stale age-old theory or presented ideas so new they were entirely foreign, unrealistic in their approach. As the day passed, I watched you grow restless and felt very much the same. The impatient tap of your foot, the twitches and fake coughs you use to stop yourself from interrupting when inappropriate. There were a few bright contenders, a handful of students closer to our own age afforded the forum to present similar solutions. Among them, many I saw you scribble notes about, likely to later poach them for purposes of empire development and administration. 

Yet where I relaxed as the day went on, your nerves only seemed to grow. While not entirely unexpected from you, now that I know to read your unwavering confidence as a practiced skill in place of arrogance, witnessing you flick through the same papers over and over brought about a shared unease. I wanted to reach out, to touch your shoulder and tell you everything will be fine, that your suggestions still hold value, that you are not superfluous to the process.  
A little biased perhaps, but I would also have told you I still believed your solution could genuinely solve many of the gaps apparent in earlier suggestions.

And when your turn came, intentionally planned last to bring the sharing of ideas to a close and place you in a position to lead the ensuing forum, I watched you chew on your lip only to push your papers aside as you stood.

Of course, I thought, Ferdinand has surely learned his speech by heart! But no, you simply thanked the participants and explained that you were better placed to act as a mediator and government representative.

And then I spent the rest of the afternoon bemused as you poked insightful holes into every argument discussed, asked questions that revealed knowledge missing from speech but apparently present in each individual’s mind. I grew increasingly annoyed, thinking of days past when you looked at me with those sad, resentful eyes in the first months following our reunion during the war. There was no need for discussion! You were right! Were you more worried than I had thought, had I not helped bolster your confidence enough in the face of this challenge? Were you concerned about drawing too much attention to yourself, in the presence of egotistical academic old farts?

Once the forum drew to a close, many approached you and asked if you had not intended to make your own proposal, and I watched you wave your hand dismissively, let out that airy laugh, the one that to knowing ears sounds a little too lighthearted to be genuine. No, after careful consideration you had decided to leave the thinking to the experts, you had nothing more of worth to contribute that had not been said earlier in the day. When our eyes met, you looked away furtively, avoiding my enquiring gaze.

It made no sense.

Until I saw you make your way through the room, congratulating the younger students for their courage, thanking the established figures for their continued service and the brightness of their minds.

Until I saw you introduce a lecturer to a minister, a student to a politician, two scholars from across the continent who not only had areas of research in common but also struggled with the same problem: how to make time for that pilgrimage following the migration of the Brighid albatross, when academy examination season falls on the same period each year?

Until I watched one of the committee chairs call the attendees to attention, and announce that they would like to congratulate a certain young woman (whom you wrote an exceptional amount of notes about) for her brilliant and engaging proposal, and her imminent promotion to a new role as liaison between the government and the guild of independent academies, as suggested by Minister von Aegir.

It is not often that I am charmed by a smile, but the joy that radiated from this bright, if a little shy, young lady when she took the floor again to explain the results of discussions throughout the day—it warmed my heart much like yours would.

And I knew then, that I had read the situation wrong. That I misunderstood your dedication to the proceedings, your motivation behind the proposal. It had not been to win, nor to prove yourself. It had been a safety net, had there been only argument. Had there been no shining mind for you to uplift, to take on a task that indeed lies outside of your expected governance.

After all, you are already the Prime Minister. How could you have single handedly managed this reform, or found a suitable person to chart it based on your schemes, that you would have to monitor and explain?

We shared a moment outside, before you were to take some dignitaries to dinner.

I told you, as planned, how proud I was of you. How exciting the developments seem. And the smile you gifted me then, oh…

I won't forget it for a thousand years.

Still, as insurance, I am glad I have committed it here to memory.


	4. Small

I have been staring at my desk and writing utensils for quite some time now, the candle as short as my coffee has grown cold.

It would appear that writing does not always come easily. In days of peace I find myself wanting for old methods—for the joyful creak of a man struggling against his hanging chains, laughing as I watch a piece of human detritus soil themselves upon my arrival, the scraping of a cell door enough to announce their moment of reckoning. Alas, opportunities for this kind of release have become increasingly scarce, and the world at relative rest begins to feel like a new kind of confinement.

That is perhaps why my own world seems narrower while yours expands each day. Is this why cracks have begun to show? Why today you felt you could not come to me, the world that brought us together now forcing us apart?

You were so distant today F., for as much as you seemed fine on the surface, I felt a distance creep between us in a way I have never witnessed before…Or have I simply been too blind to see?

There were only subtle clues after all. An instinct, even. No factual occurrences of note that seem to lead up to the scene I witnessed in the stables. There was however an unease to your manner, a subtle shift to the definition of your person, as if you were simply out of tune.

At times a hollow ring to your words, at others an echo from somewhere far away.

And the further you drifted from me, the smaller you seemed. Difficult to pin down, fading away when your presence would normally command a room.

Until suddenly you were no longer there.

You’d left a note explaining that you were to tend to a newborn foal in the stables, and not to concern myself with your absence. After all, we hadn’t arranged any plans, and I knew you were likely to invest most of your free time in the coming weeks to tending to the horses. A pastime I certainly do not begrudge you, nor particularly wish to partake in. It should have been an evening like any other, and yet…

I had a gut feeling something was wrong. For my observational and careful nature to lead to unconscious insights is hardly uncommon, but you continually find ways to confound whatever sense and knowledge I have of your mind. Though I fail to define it, something about you, about your manner, something seemed out of place all throughout the day.

Still I hesitated to act, to seek you out. It would be petty, I thought to myself. Insecure, fearful. The very traits I am attempting to put to rest on these pages. There was no evidence to warrant cause for concern. Should I not trust you, respect your desire to occupy your free time in a way that brings you fulfilment?

I am very well aware that losing you has become one of my greatest fears, one that stands tall enough that I avoid confronting the thought of it like I avoid that ridiculous balcony at the top of Enbarr palace. Looming, unavoidable: that you one day shall die, or that I one day should push you away. One must eventually come to pass, and I would sooner die myself than be the cause of the second.

Too much time was wasted in a state of pitiful indecision. When I could take the uncertainty no longer, I hastened to the stables after confirming with some of your staff that you had not yet returned.

The stables, which I found already deserted on my arrival.

Strange, given that your presence should require at least a minimum of help or security detail. And that in practice it involves far more people than necessary hanging about to enjoy your company, and you theirs. 

My stomach sank lower than I thought possible.

Had you lied? Had you honestly thought to lie to escape my company? Did you think me so uninterested that such straightforward subterfuge would escape my attention? Surely you were aware upon leaving the message that my network would notice the discrepancy and report it back to me?

The night air for once felt cold rather than welcoming, the gnawing feeling in my gut vindicated, its celebration threatening to spill out as vomit at my feet. But no—still, I could not believe it. Yes, my instinct had been correct, but I was lacking evidence. Pitiful, absolutely pitiful for feelings to run away with me so, rather reminiscent of an embarrassing incident involving a boot, a stirrup, and a horse far too eager to remove itself from my company.

And then, a faraway sound, withdrawn and out of place in a building of huge beastly horses hardly renowned for their subtlety. That was it, the unease that had plagued me all day long, your tune so subtly off key but performed nonetheless, now replaced by a melody I am sorry to know so well:

The hiked breaths, the high whines, and the low muffled groans of you hidden away, alone, and crying.

And hidden you were, enough that I had to pause to track you in the darkness despite your sobs occasionally cracking in that painful way they do when you’re trying to hold yourself back and failing.

You didn’t see me approach, huddled up as you were in an enclosure, hiding in the hay and obscured by the very mare and foal you’d intended to visit. Didn’t hear me approach, likely wouldn’t have heard anyone over the near choked inhales, hiccups, and snivelling.

You were so small Ferdinand, so small that I feared any faux-pas would cause you to break.

And for the depth of my love for you, my fear stands far taller, afraid as I am to see you tumble and fall out of my arms because of a single misstep. It felt wrong to be witness to your own moment of weakness, wrong to bring my own helplessness along and further burden you with it. You had manufactured this moment of isolation, had you not? Smiled your way through the day, done your best to keep any evidence of whatever worry you carried buried deep within? Who am I to intrude, arrogant in the inference that my presence could ever bring you relief, when you actively sought to escape it?

Evidence enough, I thought, that you who so frequently bemoans my lack of communication, my lack of unfettered emotion on particular fronts, should choose to withhold its expression from me, and that you would go to such lengths to hide it. 

So I left.

Now that I have returned to my quarters, the sickness of fear has turned to regret. It is settled and indomitable, for where fear attempts to delay the flow of time, regret carves it in stone, a shackle to the very current dragging you under with the weight of your mistakes.

I may…Be feeling rather small myself, gripping my quill too tight as it catches reluctantly across the wet patches of parchment, blotted ink a guilty testament to my own tears.

I am so sorry, my dear.

For we are at times so very alike, are we not?

Safer hidden from sight, insecurities locked away and yet—never once escaping their shadow, reduced to near nothing under their weight.

How many times have I heard people mock your exuberance? How many years came to pass before my name was removed from the list of most frequent culprits?

And I dare find myself surprised when you choose to hide emotions from me, when maybe you are even more afraid than I that a single clumsy word out of my mouth will tear you to shreds?

Perhaps the lesson here is exactly opposite to how you are often perceived:

Not that you wear your heart on your sleeve, but that your heart is too big for others to comprehend.

That you are loathe to be a burden, and that the words and emotions you share are often out of necessity rather than surplus.

That maybe people like me are the small ones, not large, not brave enough to envelop your being in a way that could help you feel safe in moments of loneliness and fear.

That you are sometimes afraid to be known, for all the fanfare your name with it sometimes brings.

Because what would be left of Ferdinand von Aegir, if of all the pieces of himself he gives away, not a single one were returned?

I owe you, Ferdinand. For leaving you alone today. I hereby swear that whenever you fall, that I will take the leap with you, fear of heights or no.

We may not find anything in the pits of despair, but at least you shall know with unwavering certainty:

You are no longer alone.


	5. Stress Relief

Space.

First you need my help to unwind from a long stressful day, and then you want some space.

Space!

Have it your way, after all it is to be expected that I bend to your every whim and fancy, regardless of my own needs. Lapdog that I am. Enjoy your cold, lonely bed tonight while I occupy myself with “work”. [[Note: yes, this repeated process of introspection certainly qualifies as work, given that it requires regular repetition, attention, and a decent chunk of time set aside in my schedule.]]

Perhaps you shall hear me scribbling away in the next room over, regret your words, and invite me back into your warmth. Perhaps we could resume as if nothing happened, spare each other the embarrassment. But recently I’ve been learning to give voice to my words, and I am preparing them here should you attempt to trick me again in the very way I am expert in: that of avoidance in the face of uncomfortable feelings.

And if not, I shall occupy myself elsewhere. It is not as if we have to share a bed every night we spend together, nor do I especially require sleep. Though I fail to see how this situation at all helps with the supposed tension and frustration you complained of earlier, given how awkward our evening turned before you dismissed me.

Will there be a performance report on my desk tomorrow? An assessment of the events, detailing my failures and inadequacies?

I can see it before me already:

> Hubert von Vestra, up until now an adequate lover, has failed to keep the mind and body quite as interested as would be expected. As such, our last attempt at intimacy was not followed through to completion, and his services have been rendered redundant until further notice.

How am I supposed to interpret the fact that you demand kisses, careful attentions, all generously and gratuitously doled out for our shared enjoyment, only for you to guide my hand back to your shoulder, to angle your body away, to break off the kisses delivering my most genuine ardour?

What meaning to your words did I misinterpret for my actions to turn so sour?

“My darling,” you cooed, batting your eyelashes and flipping your hair in that dramatic, exasperating way I love so, “I have longed for your touch and company all day. Please kiss me, so that I may know some relief from the inconvenience of it all.”

Gladly, my dear. I told you once, I’ll tell you as many times as you need to hear. I long for you all the same, long for the moment my fingers and lips find their purpose on your skin once again. A haven I’ve always found too beautiful for hands so rotten, tainted by deeds known only to the dark and bearing their gritty ashen complexion.

Has it dawned on you that letting a Vestra into your bed isn’t the thrilling dance with the devil you thought, but rather a date with your own executioner? A company so grim that it dulls your light, blunts your senses and lust for life through its unwelcome truths, written out on you by the dry, crackled touch of scarred, poisoned fingers?

I try my best to remember that our moments of alienation are temporary struggles rather than a death sentence for the hope of our shared future together. Yet they keep surprising me, and with each we overcome, I cannot help but replay a thought once overheard in palace corridors so empty they reveal even the slightest whisper, not long after we announced our intent to court:

“The Prime Minister? What horrors must have befallen von Aegir during the war, to settle for a grim inconvenience like von Vestra.”

When you pulled away from me, all I could think was that you saw our relationship for what it truly is: a compromise. That in place of the wonderful romance you dreamed of, you chose to settle for the first that came your way, and you are now too entrenched in the political reality of our affair to dare break it off.

You shall have to correct me later if I am wrong, but for now I am left in a state of utter confusion and frustration, my heart more concerned with yearning than the hard cock straining stubbornly in my pants. It’ll relent soon I’m sure, but the mention feels relevant for any future evaluation of the situation. Men are not known for their wisdom when their arousal commands attention.

You have left me so wanting, so pained for a reason I cannot fathom but will do my best to respect. We agreed after your chagrined trip to the stables that you would tell me when you needed reassurance rather than hide away, yet the exercise plays out quite contrary to my expectation.

No, that is unfair. I must remember what you said:

As much as we may wish to share our feelings with each other, they may not always make sense in our heads. And if we are not equipped to share them, how can we be expected to help each other? Is a little distance not a better balm for irrational emotion than the many explosive arguments we’ve had to date?

Though we agreed on the occasional need for distance, there is nothing soothing about this separation you imposed on us today. Yet I cannot demand that presence of mind from you, the effort required to negotiate, compromise and understand when you have made it clear that you were already exhausted and that my presence only serves to cause further aggravation.

What is it that you want to say Ferdinand, that you haven’t quite found the words for yet?

This may prove to be the moment when my writing practice becomes an advantage. I find myself much calmer as the thoughts flow into ink on the page, leaving me free to consider the situation as it stands without my own emotions clouding judgment.

> You are tired.  
> You were looking forward to spending time together.  
> You asked me to help you unwind.  
> You were happy with kisses, but avoided any escalation.  
> You dismissed me, claiming to need space.
> 
> Meaning:
> 
>   
> You do not want company at all (your stated meaning, incongruous with your character and behaviour at almost all times, and the curt, forced manner of your dismissal)  
> You are annoyed with me, my physical affection was inadequate (my own assumption, motivated by insecurity)  
> You were content with kisses, and didn’t require any further attention (a clear contender for most logical conclusion).

So, could it be that I made you uncomfortable? Did you feel that I was forcing myself on you, yet chose not to address it directly so neither of us should lose face?

You…For all your honesty, you are incapable of disappointing anyone you care for.

You would rather push me away under false pretences, than deny me something you feel you are bound by duty to give. That has to be it.

And you call me obtuse! You silly, well-intentioned simpleton! Do you fear to hurt me so that you—well. It seems that writing has improved my memory, and it is no longer quite as easy for me to pretend that I am not as guilty of this behaviour as you.

Is this what it is, to love someone so thoroughly that the practice of it becomes immensely complicated?

That our understanding of each other must fill pages of a shared encyclopedia, a wisdom of words and touch and feeling?

I love you.

Are those words not enough? Are they not all the promise you need to trust that I am here for you, to wipe your tears no matter their cause, to hold you close and kiss your hair, face, lips, to knuckles for all I care if that is what you wish—as much or as little as you want, I am yours. We cannot be everything for each other at all times, and that is fine.

I wonder if you are still awake. Probably, knowing you.

After flicking nervously through these notes once more I cannot help but wonder…Would it be easier for you to read them? For me to read them out loud? No. I must try.

Practice remains elusive, and I do not see myself in years to come carrying around little notebooks to write things down I cannot bear to say, even though you probably wouldn’t mind. I have time and again sworn to try, so here is one final attempt to lay my resolution out in the simplest of terms:

> Love Ferdinand.  
> Remind him of the fact.  
> Ask him what he needs.  
> Should he so wish, kiss him (softly) until he falls fast asleep.

It is my turn to ask something now.

And should I fail, I can always return to these pages.


	6. Woven

There are several realizations I’d like to record here today, most of which pertain to a now slumbering figure on the divan a few steps away from this substitute writing desk in our shared quarters.

The first is an observation about this process, the power that the written word holds outside of secret confessions and guilt manifested as fact. There is a difference, one learns, between the rote memorization of knowledge and acquainting with it through experience. There are many things that I know, from books and conversations and faithful recording of information in similar notebooks to this one over the years. And of those, I have known for a long time that writing is a practice of the soul, thought to understand it with the same detachment one has in their understanding of other persons. Intangible, like the idea of minds separate to one’s own, impossible to describe and honored by the many attempts chronicled in our shared history and literature. 

Yet that assumption is faulty on at least two accounts:

For one, it assumes that an experience I had not yet been privy to while practicing writing meant that all descriptions others shared of said experience were an idealized fiction, an impossible yearning of naive minds for something not quite true but in the reach of our shared human imagination. Indeed, there are many things that I assume to know: in this case, I know that there are truths I have not yet lived, but I also do not know any of these given truths fully until they are felt, experienced, and contrasted with my previous state of ignorance.

I thought writing about feelings to be an act of consequence only in the realm of fiction, that the recording of my own words kept me safe from their influence on my “real”, breathing self.

I know now, through living it, through adding to the spectrum of my own emotional experience, that there is a way in which writing can impact the world outside of my head.

And in realizing this, I come to the second fault in the original assumption: that writing a diary is an act of isolation, that it serves only to hide and embarrass the weak, unwanted byproducts of emotions more suited for expression.

Yet this is not true. These words are shared, and once free they unfurl in ways I could not have predicted. They are not dismissed, they are not separate from action, and they are not segregated from the words I do speak in avoidance of the more inconvenient ones.

Flicking through entries from the past months, there are a few that stand out due to their conscious aim to adjust my own behaviour. It has been an exercise in awareness and control, two habits of mine that I find rather hard to break. Two habits I often assume I am better at than you. [[Note in margin: Stop assuming Hubert. You are smarter than that.]]

Ferdinand.

I realized something about you today, a knowledge whose reach is so long, so deep, so ineffable and dependable that it accompanies every beat my heart sounds to the march of consciousness.

It is a fact long observed, but never felt so keenly, and in feeling it is known and immeasurable. Vast and infinite. For it is not a fact catalogued only in memory, it is in part conscious chore and at the same time gregarious inevitability.

I love you Ferdinand, I love you in more ways than I thought possible, and that love can only grow each day as our understanding of each other deepens.

Woven together, no longer tangled in angry knots, but smoothed out by older, tender hands, fragile thread bolstered by our own colours blossoming into a tapestry of times shared as one.

Like the golden threads of your hair, which slipped as if molten through my darkened fingers tonight while I brushed them on your request, our love is ever growing, bright and precious.

Which brings me to another realization.

Writing has made it easier for me to listen. Rather than react on insecure impulse, rather than escalate to argument with witty quips or insincere accusations, I find it easier now to set my emotions aside, have them wait patiently to find rest on these pages later. And in listening, I’ve heard something in your words that never quite rung true before.

I knew you needed to speak your mind, to pour your heart out, but did I ever understand why?

No, I did not. I accepted this knowledge without letting it close, and I believe I have found its truth somewhere between the pages of parchment and ink. It is the very same that carries every feeling you sing, speaking of Ferdinand von Aegir so plainly, only ever in search of those whose truths should echo your own.

You asked me earlier, if I could brush and braid your hair ready for bed while you got something off your chest. You said you knew it may sound silly, out of context, but you know yourself well enough by now to know that it will eat you up otherwise. That some words need to be said, that some feelings are only temporary, and that we do well to aid them on their merry way by giving them freedom and space.

I understood then that you speak of feelings for the same reason that I write them.  
It felt like an epiphany. That is why I’m writing now while you sleep, to preserve the weight of it should I somehow ever forget.

Remember Hubert, what it felt like for Ferdinand’s honesty to wash over you tonight. How your breath quickened and your hands trembled, when you parted strands of hair in habit. The heavy drum in your chest, drowning out all thoughts but one: Ferdinand. How his hair was the purest of silk, still soft on hands worn enough that sensation for them has become something rare. How his gestures narrated every sentence though you could not see them from where you sat, the act validation enough in itself, independent of an audience. How, for as long as he spoke, you felt the vexation on his behalf, but also the forgiveness he granted himself. The way it turned unwelcome feelings featherlight, like the beams of sunshine captured by speckled beauty marks peeking out from under his shirt. The way time seemed to still for as long as needed, reverent in understanding. That nothing in the world mattered until Ferdinand had made peace with himself, that you knew you would grant him the stars and heavens of your own soul to decorate his sky with. The anchor to your core, sinking from your chest to your gut, into unknown suffocating depths where breathing isn’t easy but the mind is light, floating, absent your own thoughts for how filled they are by another.

When you were finished talking, you asked if I was quite alright.

I sank to your shoulder, drank in your scent and pressed my lips to the crook of your neck, the completed braid still in hand and waiting for a tie to hold its new shape.

More than alright, I assured you. I’d enjoyed listening to you.

We kissed then, and our fingers intertwined when you reached back to hand me your ribbon of choice. I knew at that moment that the kiss was a declaration of love. That it was a lesson learned from our last spat, that we recognize now the difference between kisses of lust, and those craving only affection.

I recall taking the care to kiss you softly, in the way I now know brings reassurance, wraps your vulnerable feelings safely in our shared intimacy.

I recall breaking off without reluctance, the kiss finding its own satisfying end, and asking if you needed my help with anything else while I tied the bow that would hold your braid together. You confirmed that you felt relieved after talking, stifled a yawn and giggled like a child, already tugging a cushion to your chest before I could infer you perhaps needed to go to bed early.

You took my hand in yours, asked if I would join you, but I knew then that I needed to write this moment down. That we’d shared something I wanted to remember, and that I didn’t need to worry about turning you down, about denying my feelings the space you so wisely knew to take. 

So I told you I wanted to write in my diary.

And you nodded, brushed your lips across my knuckles, and told me to wake you up to go to bed properly when I was ready.

I knew then that you understood long before I could, what it was that I would get out of writing. That of course you knew but never pushed, never intruded on the space that I learned to carve much how you learned to ask me to listen. That by not crowding these moments, by letting them grow and seep into comfortable silence, we give them the importance needed for them to bind us together in respect and understanding.

And here we find once more the realization that feelings, those warm and those cold, are what bring the very depth to my life that I never knew to crave. That the frustrations turn to lessons, that the differences turn to riches, that loving you is yearning for your closeness as much as it is taking a respectful step back from the notion that anything about you should ever have to change. That appreciating you is a way of appreciating myself, and that finding a tool to convey this, be it through words spoken or written, is a joy as much as it is a challenge.

Every day with you is an opportunity to marvel at the chance to get to truly know someone so intimately, to let you in and seat you next to my fears. For there is nothing gained from hiding, nothing gained from pulling away from the mirror you hold up to me. You say yourself that you are only capable of loving a whole, that you cannot claim to really love someone in pieces. If that is how I feel about you, then I must trust that your love for me is the same, and that our love is not a love of exceptions.

I must remember what I saw, heard and felt when you spoke tonight, when I finally understood how it is that you weave yourself together, your words mapping boundaries of thoughts and emotions constantly changing.

Ferdinand, you aren’t afraid to tug at the threads of your own insecurity and let yourself unravel. You know, as I think I now do, that you must take yourself apart, unpick the stitches step by step to weave yourself back together, stronger than before.

I had never considered emotion as such, as a tool for anything other than manipulating others, necessarily repressed to keep my actions under control. My own emotions, a weakness, my love for you, a struggle even amidst all its joys and wonders.

And while we are very different people, we enact similar motions, choosing to bind our threads together, inseparable, but still independent.

We have made the choice to weave our lives in tandem, to move forward as one.

A marriage.

And now the final realization: I want to tell the world of the feelings I’ve learned to speak, I want to see them on display, a trophy of my own achievement, of yours and your faith in me. I want to proclaim our love in words, I want to wear it on my finger, sealed in agreement with a kiss.

The expression of it can be as grand as we want to make it, but I believe there’s no way now to keep the initial words from gracing my lips. No time for delay, for surprise, for contriving a scheme as I may have in the past to avoid having to confess the words myself.

For there is only one unassuming, confident truth:

Ferdinand von Aegir, I want to ask you to marry me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only hope this story leaves you with some form of lingering warmth.
> 
> Come find me on Twitter 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading.
> 
> Come find me on Twitter [@chryseliss](http://www.twitter.com/chryseliss).


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